Hopelessness
by Isabellatrix Black Swan
Summary: Reunion fic. Johnlock. One-Shot. Angst-fest. Sherlock becomes injured while killing the last of Moriarty's men.


_**Disclaimer**__: My father just said that Arthur Conan Doyle would kill himself again if he came back to life and read my fic. He's probably right, though my father hasn't read this._

_**Warnings**__: ANGST. As in a fucking angst-fest. This was made to bring out all my frustrations. A bit of OOC, but you'll see that the situation requires it. I've tried to avoid it, though._

_**Notes**__: English is my third language. This fic is beta'd, by memelovescaps, who also gave me a great idea concerning this fic. She's now banging her head on the walls because of it, I'm sure. Anyway, good luck to everyone. Reviews are very welcome._

_**...**_

Sherlock was not even three streets away from 221b when he caught the man he was pursuing. _Just in time_. They were both almost out of breath, but the detective managed to drag him into a nearby alley, deserted and out of view. The man trashed in his arms, struggling to break free. Suddenly, there was a knife in his hand and a deep gash in Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock grabbed the man's wrist and forced him to drop the knife. They kicked and punched each other for a while, Sherlock getting more and more tired from the blood loss, but he pretended to faint and, in doing so, managed to reach for the weapon and stuck it in the other man's throat. He was dead in a few seconds. Sherlock tried to hide the body, but he wasn't able to lift it from the ground. He lay by his side, panting heavily, and took his phone to call an ambulance, but he stopped dead on his tracks: he was no doctor, but it seemed to him that he was unlikely to make it through the next fifteen minutes. And if he were to die on the way to the hospital, he would never see John again. And that was out of the question.

_I'm not dead, let's have dinner_ – SH

_WHAT?_ – JW

_Are you at 221b?_ – SH

_Yes _– JW

_Wait for me there_ – SH

He placed the phone back on his pocket and ignored the constant beeps of John's furious or confused messages. He stood up with great difficulty, fighting the dizziness which threatened to make him spit out his guts over the pavement. He knew he was doing the most irrational, illogical thing he had ever done. While he limped nearly to 221b, he tried to call an ambulance, more for John's sake than his own. He knew his blogger would never forgive him if he didn't at least attempt to live. He was close enough; there was no chance that the doctors would snatch him away before he had given his proper goodbye. Again.

Odd. No-one answered, no matter how many times he called. What Sherlock didn't know was that a bomb had been set off not half an hour before in front of the Houses of Parliament. The building had been destroyed almost completely, and the victims and injured were hundreds. The emergency forces were on the verge of collapse, so no-one seemed to have the time or resources to save the life of a bleeding detective on Baker Street.

He opened the door with his key as quietly as he could and, suppressing a moan of pain and clutching his ripped flesh, he climbed the seventeen steps which led to their shared living-room. There he found John Watson, pacing around like a caged animal. He froze abruptly when he saw Sherlock, clenching his fists and tightening his mouth with rage. The detective spared a second to look around the room and at his friend. The wall had taken more shots (it appeared that Mrs. Hudson had given up trying to repair it), the whole apartment was a mixture of dirt, used clothes, broken items (mostly Sherlock's) and empty bottles. Sherlock's armchair had been stabbed recently, and its fillings still hanged from its holes.

Doctor Watson was not in a much better state: he had black circles under his eyes, his beard hadn't been shaved for weeks, he had lost a considerable amount of weight, his jumper was old and stained, and the tremors on his left hand and the limping were back. He was, in a word, a mess. And Sherlock didn't need to use his deductive skills to guess why.

It was his fault. Absolutely his fault. For the first time, he questioned his decision to leave John in the dark. Everything he did had to be done, but was it really necessary not to tell John? Sherlock knew it was useless now, to imagine a scenario where his friend had known all along and the mess in front of him could have been avoided, but he couldn't help it. He could see that John hadn't smiled in a long time, and the hopelessness in his eyes was killing him more effectively than the gash in his stomach. His knees buckled under the weight of his guilt and he hit the ground with enough force to shatter what was left of him. But, before his body fell forward to smash his face against the floor, John's arms caught him and embraced him tightly.

From the moment he had received Sherlock's texts, John had been blinded by rage. Granted, the apartment hadn't been tidy for months –or years–, but the destruction that had followed those texts had been something to behold. Mrs. Hudson had fled the flat when she heard the noises, not daring to ask him what was wrong. John felt like a fool, mocked once again by the great Sherlock Holmes, just a puppet in his schemes. He would probably laugh if he knew about the raw pain that had been consuming him since he saw his friend jumping from St. Barts. He would make him feel stupid for his unrequited love.

In his fit, John had pulverized every possession of Sherlock's that had come across his way. He had particularly enjoyed smashing the skull with a hammer and stabbing viciously the armchair. It hadn't been enough to cool his fury, so he resolved to walk around the room and save his strength to punch that idiot in the face the moment he appeared on the doorway. He was incredibly determined to do so, but he had frozen the moment he had laid eyes on him. The hate cursing through his veins hadn't allowed him to move. He had wanted to yell, punch, destroy; to make Sherlock feel a portion of the pain he had put him through, to make him understand it was nothing to joke about or dismiss only by rolling his eyes.

But then he saw the blood dripping from Sherlock's coat and his red-soaked hand, and all his hatred melt into nothingness as he jumped to catch him before he hit the floor.

He lay Sherlock down gently, trying not to hurt him. He took a brief look at the wound and, worried, started to get up to fetch the medical kit, but Sherlock gripped his arm wearing an expression of fear.

"I'll be right back" John promised. He ran to the bathroom, grabbed all he needed and went back to his friend, whose face was paler than ever. "I assume you have called an ambulance."

"I've tried. They wouldn't answer." He winced as John started cleaning up the wound. "One would think a simple task such as picking up the phone can be performed without much trouble, but apparently their incompetence..."

"Keep trying, then." John's voice was slightly high-pitched. He shoved his phone into the other man's hand. "There has been an explosion of sorts, they're pretty busy, but please, do try again."

It took a few more attempts, but eventually they answered. Sherlock told them the address and the situation. When he dropped the phone, unable to even hold it in his hand, John had already stopped fussing over him and was pressing a towel against his body to stop the blood flow, but he was trembling from head to toe.

"They'll come right away." said Sherlock, feeling weaker than ever but trying to reassure his friend. "It's okay now."

"No, it's not!" he yelled, hysteria taking the better of him. "There's severe internal damage. I can't stop you from bleeding out without more equipment, this is all I can do to slow it down, and if they don't come quickly..."

"You certainly know how to calm down your patients, doctor" he replied, trying to joke to clear the air a bit. He failed miserably.

"Sherlock..." his voice cracked, and his short breaths were increasingly becoming sobs.

Sherlock could feel his life slipping away by the second, and he knew that this was his very last opportunity to make things right. "Moriarty threatened to kill you if I didn't jump."

"What?"

"You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Fortunately, he didn't target Molly, or she wouldn't have been able to help me. She turned out to be pretty useful in the end..."

"I could have been useful, too." the bitterness in John's voice stung like a slap in the face.

"There was..." Sherlock was having some trouble speaking, both the wound and the painful memory messing up his head."... a sniper. Aiming a gun at your head. I had no other choice."

"But... where have you been these last three years?"

"Tracking down Moriarty's web. His last minion was a magnificent adversary, as my own flesh can prove, but don't worry, he won't be bothering us anymore." Sherlock felt more and more light-headed, so he swallowed his last straw of pride. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you... you would take it so hard." He hadn't been expecting that ruined version of John Watson. He had made a mistake: he had misjudged the depth of the doctor's affection for him. He had honestly thought he would be the only one enduring an excruciating pain from the separation, but he, at least, had been able to cling to the hope of seeing John again, while his friend could only grieve him and pray for a miracle. "I'm sorry." He repeated. _Life has been hell without you. I missed you. I love you. I had never thought I could love until I met you. I was so alone, and I owe you so much._ He would never tell him that, of course. John would probably think that the pain had made him delusional. And Sherlock knew that he was about to leave him again, for good this time, and his feelings would only hurt John even more.

"Oh, shut up." John tried to smile, but there were tears in his eyes and his voice was broken. "The hell you are, you git. You are only apologizing to make me keep you from bleeding to death. You kind of deserve it, you know?" he managed to chuckle a bit. "You're lucky I'm in a good mood today." _Where's the bloody ambulance, for God's sake!_ "But I'll make you clean up this mess when... when you get better."

Sherlock could feel his heartbeat growing weaker, his vision getting blurred and his limbs hadn't obeyed him for a while. He was never going to get better.

"John, I mean it." his voice came out rather slurred, and his eyelids weighted a tone, but he forced himself to stay awake – to stay alive. "I did it for you. I'm sorry I caused you so much pain. But I need you to forgive me." he had to fight for every breath. "You taught me that forgiveness is important. Please, _please_, forgive me."

John looked at the man in front of him. The so-called sociopath, but who he had seen care. For him. He was the most important man in his life. Without him, he had been lost. And he was about to lose him again.

"Of course I forgive you" John whispered.

Sherlock curved his lips in a tiny smile, looking so fragile that John couldn't help it: he cupped his face with his free hand and kissed him.

They poured into that kiss everything that had never been said between them. Everything they had been denied by fate. Every one of their hopes, forever out of their reach.

It didn't last much, only a few precious seconds of bliss. It was long enough, though.

As the sound of an ambulance reached 221b, John pulled back with a hopeful smile, but it was too late: Sherlock's eyes were closed. He wasn't breathing. There was no pulse.

The last of Sherlock's thoughts had been _Thank you_.


End file.
